


How It Ends

by LingeringLilies



Series: Peaceverse [3]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Comfort, F/F, It's Not What It Seems, no one dies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-19
Updated: 2016-05-19
Packaged: 2018-06-09 11:06:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6903325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LingeringLilies/pseuds/LingeringLilies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lexa tells Clarke she knows how it ends.</p><p>Or: the ending our girls should have gotten, as told in a canon-divergent future universe.</p><p>Plenty of death talk, but it's not what you think. This story is meant to be healing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How It Ends

Lexa’s been spending more time alone than usual. Several times she’s missed dinner even after Clarke saw her advisors leave the conference chamber an hour before. She’s quiet and withdrawn in their room at night, curling into herself rather than laying open or wrapping herself around Clarke. Clarke worries, as she always does, but keeps herself busy. After being with Lexa for twenty-four years, she’s learned that when Lexa ebbs, she always flows back.

Still, waiting for the tide is sometimes tortuous. Clarke feels the wrinkles in her forehead deepening as she frowns more. Her handmaidens grow quieter, taking her cue that she isn’t interested in idle chatter.

She tries to talk to Lexa, to pry her mind open and share whatever is troubling her, but despite all her enticements and patience, Lexa doesn’t budge. She remains cold and aloof.

It goes on for weeks, and Clarke has never felt so lonely.

One night she sees Lexa leave the council chamber heading for the elevator and decides to follow her. She knows she shouldn’t, but she can’t help herself. When Lexa goes stony and cold like this, Clarke needs any clue she can find about what’s going on.

Lexa covers her head with her cape, her braids still a giveaway of her status and identity. She walks briskly, even hopping a few times in her haste as she steals past the training grove into the forest. Clarke’s heart starts beating faster, unaccustomed to exerting herself surreptitiously.

Lexa walks into the forest a few leagues, then slows and stops at the spot where the trees bend in a graceful frame around a hillock. She stands for a moment, looking up into the tree canopy, and Clarke slinks behind a tree.

Clarke feels childish and insecure, but part of her is relieved that Lexa is alone. Not because Lexa would ever be unfaithful to her -- the thought alone is laughable -- but because she wouldn’t be able to tolerate someone else knowing what’s plaguing Lexa’s mind when her wife of more than two decades doesn’t have a clue.

Lexa kneels, then sits cross-legged. Clarke has seen her in this position countless times. Sitting there, she is transformed into the girl she was when Clarke first fell in love with her: somber, sad, and less sure of her footing. She sits and sits, eyes closed, and Clarke feels as though Lexa is trying to absorb the forest itself. There is an emptiness Lexa needs to fill, and after spying on her for twenty minutes, Clarke can’t bear it any longer. She inches away, careful not to step on any twigs or crunchy leaves as she tiptoes back to the tower. She tries to busy herself with her sketchbook, but can’t focus.

Lexa doesn’t return for dinner, only slips into their room after dark. She fills the tub quietly, ignoring Clarke where she lays in their bed. Clarke feels heavier than ever, finally rolling over and trying to sleep away the ache of being so far from her wife.

She is startled when Lexa speaks, voice tired and hoarse. “Next time you might ask me where I’m going rather than follow me.”

Clarke swallows, stilled by guilt for a moment.

“I’m sorry,” she manages.

Lexa says nothing, sliding further into the bath as though wanting the water to swallow her whole.

* * *

“I know how it ends,” Lexa says.

There is a soft resignation in Lexa’s voice, but no fear.

Clarke knows what Lexa means, but she doesn’t want it to be true.

She will never get used to Lexa talking about her death.

Lexa takes a bite of her meal, chewing it as though she hadn’t just delivered grave news.

“Ends?” Clarke echoes.

Lexa gives a solemn nod, closing her eyes as her chin dips lowest, opening them again to stare at the center of the table where a cluster of candles flicker.

Lexa has accepted her death with such grace and serenity, Clarke feels herself start to compensate.

Lexa’s mortality has always loomed large between them. Clarke has had twenty-four years to adjust to the idea that Lexa could be taken from her at any moment, whether by force, assassin, accident, or illness.

But twenty-four years of sleeping beside Lexa, listening to her breathe and stir with dreams, has lulled her into a sense of security she now feels foolish for allowing.

She thought she would be grateful when Lexa finally told her what had been preoccupying her, but now she wishes Lexa had never said anything.

“When?” Clarke asks, dreading the answer.

“Soon.”

Lexa keeps her chin steady and her gaze fixed on her plate as she slices through her meat.

“How soon?” Clarke asks, wringing her hands under the table where Lexa can’t see.

“Within the month.”

Clarke is startled by the suddenness with which she starts to cry, and startled further when Lexa doesn’t acknowledge her tears.

For once, Clarke wishes they had company with them when they took their meals. Sitting in the stony silence when she is deeply affected by Lexa’s vision is only a hair short of torture.

* * *

She manages to cobble together an apology by the time they undress for bed.

“I’m sorry I followed you yesterday,” she says, trying to meet Lexa’s eyes.

It feels like the decades of their marriage have fallen away and she’s once again a bumbling teenager, unsure and afraid of everything the future holds.

Lexa gets into bed, looking up at Clarke with a more open expression than Clarke has seen in weeks.

“Why did you?”

Clarke lays on her side, forcing herself to look Lexa straight in the eye.

“I wanted to know what was worrying you.”

Lexa looks solemn as she shifts toward Clarke. “I’m sorry.”

Clarke lets her tears fall freely. She shakes her head, refusing the apology. She’s glad she knows so she can savor every last minute with Lexa.

“I wish we had more time,” she chokes.

Lexa reaches forward and draws Clarke into her chest, letting her cry in the dark heat of her neck and hair.

“Me too,” Lexa says. The words are sad and lifeless.

Clarke pulls back to look into Lexa’s eyes, wondering why she isn’t crying.

“Will it be painful?” she asks, swallowing to try to keep her tears controlled.

“No.”

Clarke lets out a gasp of relief.

“Will I be there?”

“Yes.”

Clarke shudders at the thought. She doesn’t want to see the final light in Lexa’s eyes. She wants endless sunrises and moonlit nights.

But most of all, she wants to know that Lexa’s legacy, the thing she’s sacrificed for every day of her life, will remain.

“Will the coalition stay intact?”

Lexa responds with a simple, “Yes.”

Even though Lexa didn’t hesitate, Clarke wishes she were more certain. Clarke longs for an _Of course_ . But in their world, in the world Lexa has ruled for thirty years, there is no _Of course_.

Clarke has many questions, many assurances she will never be afforded. Instead of asking, she burrows into Lexa, absorbing her warmth and serenity. They watch the curtains blowing gracefully in the night breeze, and Clarke feels a heavy stillness fall.

“I will miss this,” Lexa says softly, running her hand over Clarke’s back.

The tears come again and it is all Clarke can do to rise up and fit her mouth to Lexa’s, pouring her adoration forward, showing her just how great her love for her is.

Their lovemaking has ebbed and flowed over the years, as have all things between them. But Clarke has never been so mournful and heavy as she undresses Lexa, kissing every inch of her skin, apologizing for every small hurt and distance and sharp word she has ever given. She is as tender and adoring as she can be, trying not to dissolve into sadness that this might be their last time.

They’ve had a quarter century together, and Clarke would kill an entire village for one more day.

For the first time, Clarke cries afterward.

* * *

“Today,” Lexa says. “I’ve sent for the ambassadors.”

It’s simple and matter-of-fact and does nothing to stop the sudden collapse inside Clarke. As stoic and calm as Lexa is, Clarke is frantic.

She takes Lexa by the arms, pushing her away from the window toward the bed. She kisses her feverishly, trying to ignore her tears, trying to map every bit of Lexa she can. She’s afraid she’ll forget what Lexa feels like, what she sounds like, what she tastes like. She’s afraid the hole that has already started to rip up through her chest her will erase their lives together.

She pushes Lexa down, forcing her to sit as she takes gulping breaths. The sun shines on Lexa’s face and Clarke feels her heart twist. She remembers their first time, when she thought she might never see Lexa again. She may have thought she loved Lexa then, but that love has multiplied every day since.

This time she knows she won’t see Lexa again, and it’s a hundred times worse.

She starts shaking, unable to even lift Lexa’s shirt. Lexa stills her hands, her face crinkling in a look of confusion. “My love…” she whispers. “There’s no reason to cry.”

Clarke freezes, horrified.

Lexa stares up at her, face angelic and bewildered for a moment longer.

“Why are you upset?”

Clarke can’t speak. She steps forward, clutching Lexa’s head, holding it against her stomach.

“I wish it was me instead,” she manages to grate out.

Lexa grasps her hips, urging her to step back, her confusion deepening for a moment before her eyes widen in a look of horror.

“Clarke… did you think I meant I was going to _die_?”

Clarke chokes even though she wasn’t the one to say the word.

“You said you saw the end.”

Lexa stands, immediately embracing Clarke, then pulling back to hold her face.

“Hodness… Oh, Clarke, no. _No_. I intend to live for many years to come.”

Clarke gulps again and again, taking in what Lexa is saying.

“I’m so sorry, love.” Lexa leans forward to press her apology into Clarke’s mouth. “No.” Another kiss. “No one is dying today.”

Clarke exhales, a bit of the tension in her chest gone.

“Then what the hell were you talking about when you said you saw the end?”

“My final days as commander.”

“Because you’re going to die?”

“No, my love,” Lexa hushes.

“Then _why_?”

A sorrowful smile passes over Lexa’s face, then fades. “It is the only way to protect the coalition. A new leader will guarantee continued peace and prosperity. To stay in command would be selfish.”

“How do you know?”

Lexa stares straight into her. “I dreamed of it. I meditated on it. I consulted the commanders before me. ” She pauses. “But mostly I knew the same way I knew about you.”

Clarke falls forward, letting Lexa hold her up, exhausted by her relief.

* * *

The ceremony is as grand and somber as the occasion requires. Lexa looks as regal as ever as she presides. Though Clarke no longer feels like her heart is going to shatter into fragments, she still feels a strong pang. Knowing this is the last time Lexa will address her ambassadors as Heda is bittersweet.

Clarke has loved every bit of Lexa for twenty four years. Her fierceness, her softness, her stoicness, her tears. She has loved the power she wields with swords and words, and she has loved the grace of her mercy and her body. To think that this is the last time Lexa will address anyone as Heda is saddening, for Clarke loved that part of Lexa too.

She understands now the gloom that Lexa has projected for weeks now. In a way, it is a death; being Commander is all Lexa has known for thirty years. Part of Lexa must feel like it’s dying.

Clarke has never seen someone face death with such grace and courage. That, she knows, will survive whatever the rest of their lives throw at them.

Lexa has taken Clarke’s breath away time and time again, but when she steps down off the dais and bows to the new commander -- lowering her head publicly for the first time since the start of her own conclave -- Clarke is breathless in a new way.

Lexa’s humility twists her heart as it grows fonder still.

When the ceremony is over, Lexa holds her head high as she exits the chamber. She does not tremble or shake. She goes directly to their quarters, and Clarke follows a minute behind. She knows Lexa needs a moment alone after such a tremendous act of courage. Clarke hovers outside the door for a moment, wondering what she’ll find inside.

Whether it’s tears or tension, it’s better than what she was expecting earlier that day.

She opens the door tentatively and sees Lexa bent over a chest, packing away their belongings. She closes the door behind her, making enough noise to alert Lexa to her presence.

“The guards will be here soon,” Lexa says.

“For what?”

Lexa looks up, quirking her head an inch. “To help us move.”

Clarke hadn’t considered that they would no longer reside in Polis tower. It’s the only home she’s ever had, aside from her quarters on the Ark, and that was so long ago, she can scarcely remember it.

Clarke would begrudge Lexa her lack of communication about the details surrounding their future, but tries to let it go. Lexa has been through enough today without having to shoulder Clarke’s annoyance.

“Where will we go?”

“A house.”

“In the city?”

Lexa looks amused. “Of course.”

Clarke knows Lexa could never be too far removed from her people.

But she’s confused by Lexa’s calmness and lack of emotion. Clarke assumed she would be sad, or at the very least nostalgic. But Lexa folds clothing and packs books into boxes without apparent emotion, and after waiting to see if Lexa will crack, Clarke resigns herself once again to the mysteriousness of Lexa.

* * *

Lexa veers toward the edge of the street, directing Clarke to a house. It has two stories, wood and adobe walls sturdy and pale with whitewash. Lexa takes the brass door handle and opens it, leading Clarke into a large open room. It is empty, save for a counter and cabinets against the back wall and a set of shelves. A staircase leads to a second floor. Light filters in through glass panes, and a smooth wooden floor matches the beams above them.

Clarke has never lived in a house. She wonders what it will be like.

“There’s a garden for you to grow herbs, if you like,” Lexa says, gesturing out the back door.

Clarke looks, distracted by the myriad possibilities this new life has suddenly presented her with.

“So - we live here alone?” she asks, hesitant to hope.

Lexa nods.

Clarke has never lived with only one other person. There have always been people around: citizens of the Ark, guards and servants and advisors and ambassadors.

In a daze, Clarke walks upstairs, surveying what she thinks is the bedroom. She’s vaguely aware of Lexa directing servants downstairs as they bring in their belongings.

The thought of living alone with with Lexa - truly alone, save for the guards posted outside the stone wall surrounding the house - is an unexpected joy. For the first time they will have the privacy and freedom Clarke has craved her whole life.

She presses her hand to a wall, wanting to make sure it’s real. When she thinks of what she thought would happen today - the agony she anticipated for weeks - she wants to press her cheek to each wall, each floorboard, and murmur gratitude for its bearing witness to Lexa being alive.

She slumps down against the wall, feeling heavy relief wash over her. She tilts her head back and continues her silent gratitude, pressing her hands to the floor.

She’s startled when Lexa steps up into the room.

“Is it to your liking, Clarke?”

Clarke opens her eyes. She can’t find a response in her throat, but she rises and walks toward Lexa, lifting her arms. She wraps them around her, feeling her warmth, feeling the solidness of her ribcage as it shifts with each breath. She still can’t feel the crack in Lexa, and wonders if it will ever come. She squeezes her, then shifts back to place a chaste kiss on Lexa’s mouth.

She fears that if she speaks, she won’t be able to stop herself from talk of mortality.

“Is it big enough?” Lexa asks, glancing around the room.

Clarke nods, taking Lexa’s hand in hers. She tries to smile, but she’s too needy for reassurance that Lexa is alive and well.

Lexa understands and reaches up to draw Clarke’s head to her shoulder, letting it rest there. It’s another apology for the confusion and distress she caused.

A servant makes his way up the stairs, and Clarke pulls away. She realizes they no longer have to maintain any semblance of propriety, but it’s habit.

The man is carrying several large planks of wood that Clarke recognizes as pieces of their bed.  Their life is being reassembled in this strange new place, and Clarke doesn’t know how to process it all at once. The flurry of activity downstairs is alarming.

Overwhelmed, she decides to take advantage of their newfound freedom. She gives Lexa’s hand a squeeze and says, “I’m going for a walk.”

Lexa tilts her head and gives an amused smile, realizing such a simple and common practice is now possible for them. The novelty of it is delightful.

“Enjoy,” she says.

Clarke brushes past the man with the pieces of deconstructed bed, walking down the stairs through the ground floor of their house that is quickly filling with furniture and out into the bright spring light of Polis.

It’s strange walking through the street without guards or servants or weapons besides the knife at her belt. She feels naked and exposed, but also weightless. She feels younger and freer, and as she passes people coming and going from their own houses, she realizes she might befriend any of them.

She is one of the populace now. The thought makes her smile until she is almost laughing.

Of all the things she thought the day would bring, laughter is not one of them.

* * *

She returns to their new house to find it quiet. The furniture has been assembled on the ground floor, chests and crates of dishes and books and art supplies unpacked. Upstairs, she hears footsteps, followed by a low, gruff voice saying, “Good day, Heda.”

The footsteps pause, then shuffle down the stairs. The servant gives Clarke a reverent nod, then lumbers out into the light.

Clarke looks around the main room of the house for a minute, fingers tracing over the spines of their books, wondering where the dishes in the cabinets came from. She looks out the window at the garden in the late afternoon light, wondering if tending it will come naturally to her. She examines each chair, each shelf, each cushion, disbelieving they are really hers, that she could exist in such a simple, peaceful place.

Finally, she goes upstairs to see their bed in its new home. What she sees instead renders her breathless again.

Lexa sits on the floor beside the bed, face in her hands, knees drawn up to her chest.

It’s the crack Clarke had been waiting for, and it is every bit as heartbreaking as she had anticipated.

Lexa startles when Clarke’s footsteps alert her to Clarke’s presence. She tries to sit up straight and wipe her face as she composes herself, but the tear tracks are obvious and her little shivers of emotion can’t been shaken off.

Clarke steps toward her, hovering, then slips down onto the floor beside Lexa.

Lexa weeps silently for a long moment, staring at the wall before them as though Clarke isn’t there.

She looks so young.

Finally, she swallows and manages to say, “He called me Heda. But… ai nou Heda noumou.”

_I’m not Heda anymore._

Clarke wraps her arms around Lexa and feels sadness seeping off her in waves. Being commander is all Lexa has known for thirty years. Now she is not Heda and she feels the loss.

From the sorrow she can feel ripping through her wife, the unsettling that she knows will take months and years to sort out, she knows that part of Lexa _has_ died. Lexa’s heart beats and her lungs breathe and in time she will come into a new incarnation of herself, a woman with passion and purpose placed into new endeavors.

But the loss of being Heda is the greatest of her life, and there is nothing Clarke can do.

Clarke squeezes Lexa to her, wanting to absorb some of the hurt. But Lexa always needs more than Clarke’s touch. She needs to hear the things Clarke tries to say with her body.

“You were so brave today,” Clarke whispers. She feels her throat tighten with emotion, trying to constrict her words. “No one else on earth could have done what you did, nor had the grace and humility and wisdom to step down when it was time. It was the most honorable thing I’ve ever seen you do. And you have led with nothing but honor.”

Lexa starts to cry harder, leaning away from Clarke, and Clarke can hardly bear it. She withdraws her arms from around Lexa, cradling Lexa’s face in her hands to try to catch her tears and her gaze.

“You may not be commander anymore, but the things–” Lexa lets out a sob and Clarke almost shakes her to get her to listen, “the things that made you Heda – those things are still you.”

Lexa presses her eyes closed tighter to squeeze out tears as though trying to banish them. She is wracked with guilt over her own sadness, and Clarke can’t bear it.

“In this house you will always be Heda.”

Lexa starts to crumple and Clarke wants nothing but to cushion her.

She manages to get Lexa up onto the bed, where she curls into the sheets and furs, letting her weight sink down. Clarke wraps around her, holding her head against Lexa’s back, relishing every shuddering breath she takes as her tears dull and then die out.

The light starts to fade, and Clarke is again struck by the strangeness of the house they now live in. She doesn’t know where to find matches, where the lanterns are kept, or what patterns of light will shift across the floor throughout the night.

But she can wait until Lexa doesn’t need her embrace to learn those things.

When it is all but pitch-black, Lexa inhales as though willing herself back into dignity. She exhales, then says quietly, “I’m hungry.”

Clarke lifts her head, glad to have something concrete to offer. “I saw some fruit downstairs.”

“That sounds good.”

Clarke pats her hip and gets up, squinting through the darkness as she makes her way downstairs.

She comes up a few minutes later with a lantern and a plate of fruit and bread and olives. Lexa sits, looking tired and sad, but further from the edge of despair. Clarke sets the lantern beside the bed and crawls forward, setting the plate between them. Lexa takes an apple slice and bites into it.

“We can get someone to cook and clean, if you like.”

“We might have to,” Clarke says, pulling a face. She’s only tried to cook a few times in her life and the results were palatable at best. She nods down at the plate. “This is my best work yet.”

Lexa smiles, her first smile in hours.

Clarke is so relieved to see Lexa’s smile, she leans forward, tasting apple juice on Lexa’s lips.

Lexa lets the kiss settle into their mouths, then pulls back, offering Clarke an olive. Clarke eats it from Lexa’s fingers, then holds up a torn piece of bread.

They take turns feeding themselves and each other, settling onto their sides when they’re done. Clarke studies Lexa’s face in this new light – completely golden, without traces of moonlight – and breathes in the stillness of the smaller, enclosed space.

Even in sadness, Lexa is so strikingly beautiful, Clarke is rendered mute. The years show on her face, but time has been kind to her. The apple of her cheek is still rosy and round, and the subtle lines that stray out from her eyes and the corners of her mouth are gentle.

Lexa once told her, in a moment of sweetness before the mirror, that Clarke was written in her face the same way war and struggle would have been written on her face if Clarke had never fallen from the sky.

The lines on Lexa’s face are lines of joy, as allowed by two decades of harmony.

Lexa’s hair, too, is still full and wavy as it pillows her head, though it has faded as a few wisps of grey have started to weave themselves in. Clarke is surprised she doesn’t have more gray, after thirty years of commanding the armies of earth. But Lexa's grace has manifested itself in her very cells.

“Will you be able to live here?” Lexa asks softly. “It’s different than what we’re accustomed to.”

“I would live in a hovel if it meant living with you.”

Lexa reaches forward, fingering a lock of Clarke’s hair. Another smile passes over her face, and she leans forward, kissing Clarke as though it might banish her sadness forever.

* * *

They make love in their new room for the first time that night. There are no guards to send away, no breeze blowing through the balcony. Instead there are crickets and a square of moonlight on the floor.

Afterwards, Lexa holds Clarke to her, still apologizing for their misunderstanding despite her own sadness. Clarke closes her eyes and says a prayer of gratitude for each _thump thump thump_ of Lexa’s heart.

Lexa’s hand slips through her hair, ever gentle and soothing. “Do you want to know how I die?” she offers.

Clarke stiffens and squeezes her eyes shut, as though she could block out the conversation, letting the knowledge that Lexa knows her own death evaporate into the earthy air.

“I die with you,” Lexa says, her voice as warm and gentle as ever. “Just like this. In each other’s arms, without pain, without sadness.”

The tide of fear that had rushed up on Clarke starts to go back out. “Together?”

She feels Lexa nod against the top of her head. “Together.”

“Are we old?”

“Veritable crones.”

Clarke keeps her eyes closed, peaceful now. She smiles, knowing Lexa can feel it against her chest as she continues stroking Clarke’s hair.

“It’s a long ways from now, hodness. We have so much time.”

Clarke never thought Lexa’s talk of death would be so soothing.

Now she understands what she never did as Wanheda; death is not always fearsome. It can be gentle. It can be graceful. It can even be beautiful.

* * *

The morning finds them later than usual. Their new room lets in less light than their room in the tower. Clarke doesn’t mind the extra sleep, nor does she mind the way the room seems to contain Lexa as she stares out their window. The smaller frame and lack of balcony keep Lexa close.

Clarke rises, drawing her hair up, brushing her teeth and having a glass of water before meeting Lexa at the window, looking down.

The garden below isn’t planted yet, but Clarke can picture rows of lettuce and tomatoes and herbs. She imagines the fruit trees growing larger, their trunks strong enough to hold a hammock.

She wraps her arm around Lexa, drawing her close. Lexa is the most important part of the garden Clarke imagines.

Lexa curls into her, then twists to face Clarke directly. She bows her head and inhales through her nose. She leans forward, pressing her forehead to Clarke’s. All the distance that had been put between them in recent weeks has gone.

“It’s here, my love,” Lexa whispers, hands linking at the base of Clarke’s spine.

“What?” Clarke whispers back.

“The day we owe nothing more to our people.”

Lexa smiles, her serenity filling the room, spilling out over the garden and street and city. She has never been more radiant or calm.

They have years and years to tend the garden together.

Clarke has never loved her more.

 


End file.
